The Hotel
by Crooked Souls
Summary: 'You can check out any time you like but you can never leave.' John, hungry and homeless, stumbles upon a strange hotel, setting off a string of events that may forever change his life. Johnlock. Oneshot. Complete.


***Title and idea inspired by Hotel California by The Eagles***

The sky was a lifeless grey. A few wispy clouds hung in the air like smoke. The sun was on its way down, bathing the west in an eerie red glow. Before long, the chaos of the busy city would be traded for the soft scuffling of late night feet and the crunch of vagrant cars in the dusky breeze.

John pushed his grimy hair away from his eyes, fumbling for a clip to keep the annoying strands out of his unwashed face. More than anything, he longed for a bath, the steamy kiss of water on skin, and a fresh set of clothes to replace the tatters that clung to his lanky figure. He knew it was too much to ask. Here he was, wandering around this city -what city was it, anyway?- like a stray cat, unknown and unwanted. He would be lucky to find a scrap of food and a dry corner to sleep in. A bath was the least of his concerns.

John straightened determinedly, shifting his light backpack to the other shoulder. He plodded along in forced confidence.

The glare of the streetlights blocked the stars from shining in the blackening sky. The wind began to stir, blowing her icy breath in John's face. He tucked his head down and fought against it, plunging foreword. He stumbled, his foot landing in a puddle. Immediately, freezing water flooded his ragged shoe, and John flinched at the cold. He dragged his sodden foot away, squelching sounds filling the otherwise silent air.

John wearily trudged on until he found a quiet corner behind a building where a misplaced piece of roofing hung over his head. As he sat, he sighed in relief to be off his aching feet. Rain rattled on the rafter, and a few drops splashed his face. He dug into his backpack, pulling out his ruined blanket and huddling into its small warmth. It smelled of dirt and car exhaust, and it comforted John.

As John prepared to settle for the night, his eyes landed on a neon flash of color. There, around the corner, was a building with a lit sign. The bright pink stung John's eyes, but he couldn't help but feel drawn to it somehow. What was it? A restaurant? No, certainly not. No restaurant would be open at this time of night. A club, perhaps? That could be it.

John, his curiosity thoroughly piqued, decided to go find out. He felt as though he just had to know.

As he got closer, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes and sweat reached his nose. Although, John noticed, it did not look at all like a club. It was far too big, he discovered, and the sign looked as though it said "Hotel", despite several flickery lights.

That was strange. A hotel, all the way out here. It looked as if it had seen better days, just like John felt. Yet somehow, as he gazed at it, John felt strange, as though this hotel was deeply important.

'_This_ _could be heaven,'_ John thought,_ 'Or this could be hell.'_

John wondered if he should go in. From what he knew, hotels were mostly upscale, as well as pricey, and he certainly did not have the funds to pay for even one night. However, the hotel likely had a nice bathroom that he could at least wash his face in. He decided that it would be worth it.

With his hand on the door, John took a deep breath. A foreboding feeling came over him, as if his decision would somehow change his life. He opened the door and stepped inside.

He was surprised at the beautiful interior of the place. The floor was covered in clean, soft carpet, and the receptionist sat behind a marble counter. A glass chandelier hung above his head, and the room was spacious and warm.

As he looked around, John caught sight of a two figures walking down a corridor. The taller of the two was clad in tight white pants and dark, shaggy curls covered his head. The shorter had dyed honey blond hair and was clutching a bottle of beer. The brunet held a margarita in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. As they turned the corner, the brunet tossed his head back and laughed, and John caught sight of the most beautiful face he had ever seen.

A quiet cough brought him back to attention, and he turned his head to the receptionist, who was looking at him quizzically.

"Welcome to the Hotel," the brown haired man spoke in a preprogrammed voice. He opened his mouth to speak again, but John rushed to cut him off.

"I'm not staying the night," he informed hurriedly. "I don't have money for that. I would just like to use your restroom, if that's alright." He smiled sheepishly.

The man smiled slightly, although it wasn't comforting.

"Money is not an issue. You see, this isn't an ordinary hotel." John furrowed his brows in confusion, a question on his tongue. "We don't charge here. Everything is free."

John was stunned. _Free?_ There had to be some mistake. The shock must have shown on his face, for in the next moment, the man handed him a towel and a fresh set of clothing.

"Go wash up. God knows you need it," the man said, pointing John in the direction of a shower room before he could get a word in.

John nodded, too shocked to make out a complete sentence, and went to where the man instructed.

John peeled off his filthy clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot water felt absolutely wonderful on his skin, and he felt he could cry in happiness. Unhurriedly, he scrubbed the dirt from his body, for once feeling blissfully clean. He washed his hair, surprised at how soft and silky it felt without grease and tangles. He stood under the shower head for a few extra minutes, relishing the warmth and soapy smell.

When he was finally finished, he wrapped the fluffy towel around himself. It was so soft and luxurious. John wondered how much it had cost. He dressed himself in the clothes he had been given, which fit surprisingly well. The sleeves on the shirt were a bit long, but John was far too happy to complain.

John ran his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. He smiled a bit as he caught sight of his reflection. He hardly recognized himself, and he was quite pleased with the new look.

As he walked back to the receptionist's desk, a hand caught his wrist. John turned to see the curly haired man from before smiling at him. It was a bit lopsided, but not short on charm. He gave his own nervous smile back.

"I'm Sherlock," the man introduced pleasantly, although John saw a flicker of unease in his eyes.

"John," he replied, wondering where this conversation was going.

"I'm here to take you to your room," Sherlock informed, biting his lower lip coyly. "My room has the only available bed. I hope you don't mind."

The way Sherlock stared at him, almost hungrily, made John slightly uncomfortable, and he shifted awkwardly. However, his first impression of the man was not a bad one, and he readily agreed.

Sherlock took his hand, to John's surprise, and almost dragged him down the hallway to a quiet room with two beds. The farther bed looked untouched, and John assumed it was his.

As he walked to the bed, he noticed Sherlock's eyes raking appreciatively over his body, but he pretended not to notice. However, as soon as John sat down, Sherlock was straddling his lap, kissing him heatedly as his hands slipped under his shirt. John's eyes flew open wide, and he leaned back, falling down on the mattress with Sherlock on top of him. A surprised noise left his throat, and as Sherlock's hand began touching him through his pants, he pushed Sherlock off of him, more out of shock than disgust.

"What are you doing?" he asked, scandalized.

Sherlock was equally baffled.

"What? You mean, that's not why you're here?" he asked. His eyes became huge.

"N-no," John stuttered. "Why would I be? I just came to stay the night," he explained.

Sherlock looked like he was going to say something, but he changed his mind and said something else instead.

"Wow. It's just that most people who come here want nothing but sex, drugs, and alcohol. What makes you so different?" Sherlock asked, genuine curiosity lighting up his pretty face.

"I- Well I guess I wouldn't sleep with someone that I just met. I would probably wait until I loved them, to do something like that," John answered honestly.

Sherlock stared pensively at him for a while.

"Oh. Okay." His voice was soft and light, as if he had never thought of that idea before.

John felt the sudden urge to hold him close, but he resisted. Instead, he told Sherlock that he was going to sleep. He figured the taller man would go back to his own bed; however, he made no move to get up. He just laid there comfortably, beside John, as if it were completely normal. And maybe, thought John, to him it was.

John woke to the sound of voices in the corridor. Darkness shrouded his eyes as he listened.

_"Such a lovely place,"_ said one.

_"Yes. Indeed it is,"_ said another.

The voices seemed to be getting closer, although John heard no footsteps.

_"Wouldn't you agree?"_ A third voice said, and it sounded like it was near, at the end of his bed. John started to get scared.

_"Quite a lovely face, as well,"_ said the first voice, and John swore he felt something touch his cheek. The voices laughed merrily, and then they were gone.

John, breathing heavily, turned to look at Sherlock. The man was still sleeping, and he looked peaceful. Watching him calmed John down considerably, and he couldn't resist sweeping a strand of hair out of Sherlock's serene face. He rather liked the man. He wasn't bad, not at all. John figured he just didn't know anything different. He sensed an underlying innocence from him. Maybe it was lack of sleep, or the remaining fear, or the effect of the crazy day, but as John drifted back to unconsciousness, he thought that maybe, just maybe, it would be possible to love this boy.

John was pulled from the lull of sleep by warm fingers gliding across his face. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock gazing up at him with his head curiously tilted. He reminded John of an inquisitive kitten.

"Good morning," Sherlock smiled sweetly.

"Morning," John grinned back, fighting back a laugh at the younger's messy hair and sleepy eyes.

"What do you wanna do today?" Sherlock asked as he traced his fingers along John's eyebrows.

John thought for a while, briefly wondering why Sherlock was so interested in his affairs. His stomach answered for him, growling out a plea for food.

"Well, I should probably get something to eat," John stated, recalling that he had not eaten the previous night.

"Cool," Sherlock chirped. "After that, do you wanna go dancing with me?" he asked. His grey eyes silently pleaded, and John could sense that it was important to Sherlock.

"Yeah. Sure. Why not?" he nodded.

"Good!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking relieved. John found that slightly odd, but he dismissed the thought as Sherlock threw his arms around his neck thankfully.

John hugged him back, feeling a small sense of happiness.

John walked with Sherlock to the Hotel's restaurant, feeling more content than he had in a long time.

The restaurant was fancy, but not to the point of discomfort. The tables were draped with white cloth, and crystal glasses stood on top. John sat at a small table, across from Sherlock.

When the waiter came with the food, John was excited. He had never seen such delicious-looking food, and he was half-starved. He ate his food with fervor, savoring each wonderful bite. He felt like royalty, eating such mouth-watering food, for free, no less.

John noticed that Sherlock was barely picking at his food, looking disinterested.

"Why aren't you eating?" John asked through a mouthful of food.

Sherlock looked startled.

"Huh? Oh, I'm just not that hungry," he replied, taking a forced bite.

John watched Sherlock throughout the meal. The younger sat with a downcast look on his face, and occasionally looked up to stare out the window wistfully. John wanted to ask why, but he held his tongue for fear of offending Sherlock.

After the meal, Sherlock brightened up as he grabbed John's hand to drag him to the courtyard.

Once they arrived, the same pretty blond boy from before ran up to Sherlock, and they immediately launched into a conversation. John felt awkward standing there, especially as Sherlock slapped the blond's shoulder playfully, giggling at something he said. John didn't like the way Sherlock was flirting with the boy, but he tried to ignore it.

Soon, another boy, who had a thick coating of eyeliner around his eyes, approached, carrying a pack of cigarettes. He gave one to the blond boy and Sherlock, before taking one for himself. As an afterthought, he offered one to John, more likely out of politeness than friendliness. The eyeliner boy seemed genuinely shocked when John declined.

Only once the cigarettes burned low and the two nameless boys migrated to the other side of the courtyard did Sherlock seem to remember John.

"Who were those people?" John asked.

Sherlock scrunched his face for a moment.

"I don't know their names." He shrugged dismissively, as if it wasn't important. "Anyway, we came here to dance. What are you waiting for?" he called, already making his way to the dance floor.

John followed a bit hesitantly, but soon he was dancing, letting the music control his movements.

After awhile, John began to grow tired. He meandered to the side to stand near the refreshment table, grabbing a chunk of ice to cool down during his much deserved break.

John's eyes found Sherlock, and he watched in fascination as the boy danced effortlessly. He didn't seem the slightest bit tired, although John knew they had been dancing for hours. He was somewhat impressed, as well as a bit concerned.

After what felt like years, but must have only been another hour or two, John decided that enough was enough. He marched to where Sherlock was dancing unweariedly and grabbed the brunet by the wrist, pulling him to a vacant corner.

Upon closer inspection, Sherlock looked exhausted, and he swayed precariously. As he attempted to catch his breath, he collapsed into John's chest, panting. John had him sit on the floor while he brought him a cup of water.

"You could have passed out," John pointed out as he handed the cup to Sherlock, who took a small sip. "Why do you dance so much?" he asked.

Sherlock remained quiet as he drank the water. His face was somber, and he avoided John's eyes as he responded.

"To forget," was all he said.

"To forget what?" John asked gently.

Sherlock bit his lip and closed his eyes. He turned his face away and did not answer. John didn't pry.

As the two walked down a hallway, John forgot all about his life on the streets. This place was perfect. He didn't ever want to leave.

Soon, the hall became unfamiliar, and strange mirrors hung from the walls. John looked up. There were mirrors on the ceiling as well. His reflection, however, did not look as it should. It was distorted, freakish and menacing, and it felt sinister and malevolent. John shivered in unease, and walked closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed to notice his fear. He stopped walking and turned to John. His voice was grave and he spoke with a strange urgency.

"We're all prisoners here," he said darkly. "Of our own device."

John was confused, but before he could ask what he meant, Sherlock was walking away. As John tried to follow, he sped up, until John was nearly running after him. Before long, however, he disappeared, and John felt a sharp pang of disappointment and something like betrayal.

When John finally made it back to his room, he found Sherlock already asleep, on his own bed.

As John laid down to sleep, he felt oddly lonely, and he caught himself staring at Sherlock's still form many times, wondering what it was that had made him react so strongly.

This time, when John woke up, Sherlock was still sleeping, and it was his turn to watch Sherlock wake up.

"Hey," John said softly as Sherlock stretched.

"Hey." Sherlock smiled slightly.

"What do you wanna do today?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted. "I don't know," he said, holding back a giggle.

"Oh, but you must want to do something," John insisted. "Dancing, eating, walking the corridors. There's gotta be something you like," he teased.

Sherlock couldn't hold back a laugh. "Maybe I want to do _THIS_!" he shouted, launching a pillow straight at John's face. It made its mark, and Sherlock rolled around the bed in a fit of laughter.

"Oh my god, you should have seen your face!" he wheezed, clutching his stomach.

John grimaced. _'Two can play at that game.'_

John hoisted his pillow over his head, swinging it down to clash against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock tried to look offended, but his facade broke after seeing John's good-natured grin.

The two wrestled, hitting each other with pillows, until their laughter overcame them, and they rolled on the floor in hysterics.

"That was so fun!" John exclaimed, wiping a tear of merriment from his eye.

"Yeah. Fun..." Sherlock replied thoughtfully.

Sherlock scooted over until he was pressed comfortably against John. John smiled at him tenderly, and he hummed in content.

Suddenly, drifting voices filled their ears.

_"What a nice surprise!"_ one exclaimed, sounding far too pleased.

Sherlock stiffened, and John knew that he had heard them too.

_"I hope you stay for a while,"_ another voice breathed.

John's hand found Sherlock's for comfort as he yet again felt as though something was touching him. He looked and saw tears in Sherlock's eyes.

"Let's get out of here!" John ran for the door, clutching Sherlock's hand for dear life.

_"Going so soon?"_ The voice sounded disappointed.

John ran with Sherlock to the receptionist's desk where he had come in. He flew to the door, starting to panic when it did not open.

"Calm down," laughed the receptionist. "The Hotel's job is to let people in," he said too easily. "You can check out any time you like. But you can never leave."

The small man sounded threatening, and John found himself backing away as his eyes met the unflinching brown eyes.

The man threw his head back and laughed, and the sound rang ominously in John's ears.

Sherlock clung to John, looking scared, although not completely surprised.

As the man stood and walked forward, John sprinted in the opposite direction, turning down a hallway.

Footsteps rung behind him, and John heard the voices from ahead.

_"Oh. They're back again!"_ they purred, drawing nearer and nearer as the following footsteps pounded into John's head like knives.

Thinking fast, John ducked into a closet, pushing Sherlock behind him. Sherlock buried his face in the back of John's neck.

_"You can't hide forever."_ The voices blended with the shout of the receptionist.

A steady thumping sound got louder and louder until it stopped in front of the closet. John held his breath. The closet door creaked open, letting in a swath of light. John shut his eyes, and blackness came over him.

When John woke, he was back outside, in the abandoned street alcove he had been in before. The sun was rising, and John blinked in the light.

Suddenly, memories washed over him. Sherlock. The Hotel. The receptionist. The voices. He looked to where the Hotel had been before, but there was nothing there. Had he dreamt it all up?

John felt a small weight on his shoulder, and he looked to see a familiar head of curly brown hair.


End file.
